Jello Dreams
by OpheliacAngel
Summary: There had been more than one occasion that Dean searched Sam's duffel only to find a box or two of Jello, in Dean's favorite flavors, and had been taken aback by Sam's now apparent yet carefully discreet concern over something Dean thought next to nothing about. Fill for 'hypoglycemia' for h/c bingo Round 7.


**Title:** Jello Dreams

 **Author:** OpheliacAngel

 **Characters:** Dean, Sam, Benny

 **Genres:** Family/Hurt/Comfort

 **Rating:** Teen

 **Summary:** There had been more than one occasion that Dean searched Sam's duffel only to find a box or two of Jello, in Dean's favorite flavors, and had been taken aback by Sam's now apparent yet carefully discreet concern over something Dean thought next to nothing about.

Because, after all, Dean's low blood sugar problem was never really a problem.

 **A/N:** Fill for h/c_bingo Round 7 for the prompt 'hypoglycemia/low blood sugar'.

 **Note:** I myself do not have hypoglycemia, so I sincerely hope that those reading this that suffer from its symptoms find nothing offensive or glaringly wrong.

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Dean's low blood sugar problem was never really a problem.

To Dean it was something minuscule and stupid that was best forgotten than obsessed about. He kept candy in his duffel, extra when he skipped a meal or had the feeling he was about to hit the bottle hard, and a bottle of grape juice crammed in one of the small pockets when he thought he could hide it from Sam, perceptive bastard that he was. So Dean's ever-present love for food became almost something of a necessity, and if Sam complained about Dean's eating habits then at least it was better than him knowingthe full extent of Dean's problem _._

What Dean couldn't himself hide or forget, he would conveniently tie into his other ever-present need: pie.

Sam _always_ brought him back something, even if that something wasn't pie, because as much as his brother teased him when he ate too much candy, or talked about pie more than the case they were currently working, teased him to keep it less serious than it could get, the point was that it _had_ gotten serious a handful of times.

Times Dean wished he could black out from _both_ their memories.

Like if Dean drank too much and forgot to down a handful of jelly beans in between glasses, his brain would feel like it was a paper ball, bunched up tight and rattling around in his head, hands trembling and mouth dry and twitching erratically. Or if he pushed himself for too hard and too long on a hunt after half-assing or forgoing a meal entirely, his body would just decide to shut down right then and there, without even thinking to consult him.

Most of the time Dean could work through it: the dizzy spells; the pounding headaches that left little room to think; and the increased sweating, almost like being doused in cold or hot water. If he was on the last dregs of a case he could push through, and only if he kept his stress levels low, which on a hunt was more wishful thinking than reality.

The more he pushed it back and ignored it though, the worse it got. His reflexes went out the window and his heartbeat was so damn loud and hyper-accelerated that it was all he could hear, his whole life down to that one unsteady beat that was so loud it made him wince. When he saw more than one Sam he knew he was really screwed, even more so when Sam held up a hand or three or four because that meant he had _noticed_.

Sam had learned over the years to read the signs even before Dean did: slipping a candy bar discreetly into Dean's hand without a word, plying Dean with juice drinks, swiping a hand over Dean's forehead and pulling it away before his outraged older brother could grasp the need to swat said hand away. Hell, there had even been more than one occasion that Dean searched Sam's duffel only to find a box or two of Jello, in Dean's favorite flavors, and had been taken aback by Sam's now apparent yet carefully discreet concern over something Dean thought next to nothing about.

Leave it to Dean not to place _any_ stock in anything that made him weaker.

Or more like a girl, given the very real possibility of face-planting right in front of his little brother for no damn reason. Dean tried not to think about it because it _always_ left him irritable; leave it to his ignorant body to turn him into a chick.

There was a long time where he thought Sam didn't notice or didn't care, pretty much because his brother only brought it up once and was shot down even quicker than Dean shut away his own pesky worries. Not that it mattered, what with Sam being the research nerd; sometimes Dean worried about him _actually_ running out of things to research.

As long as Sam never brought it up, Dean figured he'd leave his brother to do or research or buy whatever the hell he needed to do or research or buy. Dean needed to forget it past the point of following his carefully constructed habits over years and years, because that was his _one_ weakness, the one time he couldn't think, couldn't run, couldn't _hunt._

On the far between worst days Dean would turn the water in the shower as hot as it could go, still in his sweat-drenched clothes, and he would just sit there on the floor, tucked into the corner if he could crawl that far, and he would try to breathe. A small nagging voice at the back of his head would remind him to pray that Sam wouldn't find him, but in time he ignored it upon realizing that Sam _always_ found him, if only to turn off the water or help unglue him from the tile. If only to change the sheets and manhandle Dean back into bed and give Dean way too much choice by way of candy and drinks and fruit, if Dean was lucid enough to notice that last ridiculous option.

It was Sam's test if nothing else, his way of making sure Dean was still _there_ , even if not even _mostly_ there.

If Sam wanted to figure it all out, think it all through then _fine_ , but Dean only wanted to lay there and gear up to get up as quickly as possible and ignore the problem. As far as he was concerned, that was the Winchester way: ignore the problem until it went away.

Even though it never went away, and some days it did everything it could to taunt him into an early grave.

If they were in some filthy motel room then it was ideal, or as ideal as it could get, but of course Dean didn't always get that lucky. Other rare times and he would be pressing his forehead as far as it could go into the seat of the Impala, trying not to worry about Sam and work himself into an even worse state where he scarcely remembered Sam's name, let alone that he had to finish the hunt without his damned useless brother, whom he had dumped in the car and told to wait.

If he moved, he'd get as far as ending up face forward on the ground, half in his baby and half out. If he moved, he'd make an even bigger fool of himself. Later, if he refused to give his body time to catch up, to recoup what it lost, then passing out would be the least of his worries.

Never again did he want to see the look on his brother's face after he recovered from a seizure. That look was far worse than any pain or disorientation, because even then Sam didn't talk about it, just stood there staring and hovering and forcing Dean to fumble futilely for words to somehow make an irreversible issue less bad.

After that they always stopped for three meals, even if they were too busy. After that vending machines were always top of Dean's list while Sam booked their room. After that Dean did everything he could to prevent a bad situation from turning into a worse one.

It usually worked too, usually worked out that he could lock himself in bathrooms and pull himself back together, thread by thread, with him being able to pretend that Sam didn't know. That Sam didn't just forget about all the bad parts but _all_ of it.

Until today. String of bad hunts, excess drinking, Dean forgetting to take advantage of the vending machine two doors down from their room, the convenient location a habit to Sam as much as everything else was to Dean.

Sam's gigantor hands were on his shoulders - Dean couldn't _not_ feel them even if he tried - until they weren't, then there was a hand holding an open bottle to his parched mouth, Sam depending on the feel of it smashed against his lips to trigger the impulse to drink. It worked but even that was shaky at best, Dean hardly able to swallow worth a damn and coughing half of it back up. The drink was fruity and tasted like some weird mixture of grape and strawberry, but it still burned his throat and tasted like acid coming back up, splattered half on the pavement and half on Sam's jacket.

His brother was so used to it he didn't even seem to notice, screwed the cap back on and went back to holding Dean's shoulders.

Sam was always infinitely patient even if his temper had been short on the case; none of it mattered when Dean was half in and half out, and Dean marveled at that. He would do the same for Sam without thought, but the fact that a moody Sam could be shut off with the flick of a switch… it was a shame it only worked for this.

The last time Dean's blood sugar dropped low, Benny was holding him down and hand-feeding him berries, telling him in that low voice of his to 'hold on a minute, brother,' and 'I know just what you need, chief.' Benny hadn't seen it as a weakness, not with his own need to feed, as infrequent as it was. Once Dean got on the berry diet then he didn't have to worry so much, but Benny still kept to walking behind him just in case he fell and hit a tree on his way down.

Now there was Sam again, Sam's familiar hands and stubbornly long hair obscuring portions of his face and even through blurred vision Dean could still make out his baby brother, couldn't think of anything else to say but _I missed you_ and _you didn_ _'t forget._ And those things he'd never get up the guts to say.

His little brother's face lightened in contradiction. "I missed you too, Dean."

Sam unscrewed the cap again and with his words vibrating warmly through Dean's core, he gave it another go. Dean figured he could drink as long as Sam was holding the bottle, as long as he wasn't running off to see Amelia. He figured he could eat the year old - at least - Jello in those wilting boxes if Sam ever made them up for him, as long as he was there and not a voice on the other end of the line, hundreds of miles away.

Those five words were all that he needed to hear to make a bad situation seem familiar and even okay for a change.

 **FIN**

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 **A/N:** So I was thinking back on Sam getting pie (or cake) for Dean for a handful of episodes, and wanted to play around with it being more than Dean simply being bossy and demanding. Plus, you can't miss the emphasis on eating in the show. At the same time, I realized that if the low blood sugar was too much of a problem, then it would strip Dean too much of his ability to hunt, so I hope it seemed believable enough.

And thanks for reading.


End file.
